Saturday Afternoon
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Cara/Tarol AU. Oneshot. They shared tea every Saturday afternoon and, sometimes, Carol tried to share a little more. She might not ever teach Tara how to play the piano, but she hoped she could teach her other things. Carol, Tara, nothing romantic or sexual


**AN: This is just a little "scene" for the Tumblr prompt that wanted Carol and Tara interacting as teacher and student. There's nothing romantic or sexual here.**

 **I own nothing from the show.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"I don't have the right fingers for it," Tara declared.

Carol willed herself not to roll her eyes.

"You have fingers, don't you?" Carol asked.

Tara sighed and nodded. This was nothing new. It wasn't any exchange that hadn't taken place at least two dozen times between the two of them.

"Then you've got more than some people who learn to play the piano have," Carol said.

Tara issued a quiet growl.

Carol got up from her seat on the piano bench, excused herself without words or gestures, and went directly to her kitchen. She put a kettle on for tea. There was no need to keep this going. By now? Carol knew the exact moment during a lesson when she was getting nothing else out of Tara.

While she took her time, getting the mugs out and making the tea, Carol gave the girl time to cool down. She gave her time to do whatever it was that she had to do to overcome the frustration of some failed songs that came about as a direct result of the fact that she never practiced.

Or, at the very least, because she never practiced without being forced into it. Doing anything simply because you were made to it was a pretty good way to make sure that it wasn't done well.

Carol looked toward her kitchen doorway when she heard the squeak of Tara's rubber soled shoes as she dragged her feet into the space.

"It's not that you don't have the fingers for it, you know that, right?" Carol said.

Tara didn't respond. She sat at the little round table that Carol had in the kitchen. It was all she and Sophia really needed. It would seat four. Five in a crunch. It was plenty big enough and it fit in the space that was designed to be the "dinging nook" of the kitchen. Seated, Tara sighed loudly and dramatically, and then she rested her chin on her hand and thumped her elbow down on the table loudly enough that Carol imagined it smarted.

At seventeen? Tara was three years older than Sophia. She was a good deal different, too, than Carol's own daughter. But there was one thing that the girls had in common. They were both good girls. And, maybe, there were two things that they had in common—because Carol loved them both.

Carol brought the tea over and put one of the mugs in front of Tara before she sat with her own steaming mug. This was their practice. It had been their practice for years. Tara had been one of the first students to come to Carol when she'd started piano lessons to earn extra money after her divorce. Her regular job as a secretary at a downtown business paid fine, but the piano lessons given on the weekends and in the evenings were what bought all the little extras that Carol liked to give Sophia.

Tara had come, twelve years old at the time, at her mother's request. Carol knew, from the moment that the woman spoke to her about how much she wanted Tara to learn the piano, and how wonderful she thought it would be for Tara to play as well as anyone ever had, that Tara would never play well.

"It's not about your fingers. It's not about your ears. It's not because your feet don't land right on the pedals," Carol said, counting off the excuses she'd heard over the years. "It's not because the piano is poorly tuned or your piano is poorly tuned. It's not because you can't read the sheet music. It's simply because—you don't want to learn to play the piano."

Tara looked at her, slight shock making her mouth fall open, and Carol smiled at her and shook her head.

Tara wasn't really shocked. She was, maybe, worried. She was worried that she'd disappoint her mother—which she likely would because the woman didn't seem capable of seeing past her own desires—but she was also worried that she'd disappoint Carol. She was afraid, and Carol had known this for some time, that if she declared how much she hated playing the piano, it would take away everything that they had in common. It would make Carol disappointed in her. It would make Carol turn away from her.

Carol wasn't going to turn away from the girl. She loved the piano, but she didn't expect anyone else to even care about the instrument.

Carol shook her head at Tara.

"Don't tell me you love it," Carol said. "Because you don't. You hate it. You hate everything about it. You hate the practice. You hate the repetition. You hate—the cramps that your fingers get if you sit too long. And that's alright. It's not for everyone."

Tara shook her head gently, without commitment, but she didn't verbally respond. She wasn't a liar, so to avoid lying? She never actually said anything when she didn't want to tell the truth.

Carol sighed.

"I just want you to know that the reason you can't play well? It's not about you or your ability. It's about your desire. You don't play well because you don't want to play well. You don't want to work at it, the way that you would have to. It's not worth it to you. But if it was worth it? If you loved it? You'd be the best pianist to ever live. You understand that, right?"

Tara looked at Carol, swallowed, and dropped her big, emotion-filled eyes toward the cheap table cloth in front of her.

"I've never been good at anything," Tara said.

"You're good at anything you want to be good at," Carol said.

"Not dance," Tara said. "Ballet or tap. Not voice lessons. Not the piano."

"Your mother loves those things," Carol said. "But do you?"

Tara continued to look at the table cloth, but she shook her head.

"Then you're not good at them," Carol said, "because you don't love them. But when you find something you do love? You'll be great."

She sat there for a moment, ticking back through her memory and all the conversations shared over their special after-lesson tea, and then Carol jumped a little with excitement at what her own memory offered her. She reached a hand out and patted Tara's.

"You're good at ROTC, right? You love that. You loved—shop class? Was it shop? Where you made me that _amazing_ hanging flower rod? I have that on the porch. You know I love it. It's beautiful enough you could sell them, Tara!" Carol declared.

Tara smiled softly. She clearly thought about what Carol said and her smile grew with a little inner pride.

"Mama says those aren't really things that girls should be good at," Tara said.

"Girls can be good at anything," Carol said. "Girls _should_ be good at anything. If you love it? You do it, sweetheart. And you do it well. To the best of your ability. As long as you do the best you can at it? There's no shame in anything you do. And I really do love that flower rod."

Tara smiled and nodded her head.

"You don't hate me for not liking the piano?" Tara asked. "You love it so much. You're so good at it. You don't hate me for thinking it's a waste of time?"

Carol laughed. She couldn't help it. She shook her head, though.

"I couldn't hate you for anything," Carol said. "But no. That's my thing. I loved it when I was a little girl. I love it now. Sophia never did, and it never bothered me. From the day she told me that she didn't like playing?"

Carol shrugged.

"It's my love. It doesn't have to be anyone else's. Maybe—when I'm really, really old? I'll play piano at the retirement home or something," Carol said.

She smirked at Tara.

"I'll entertain all the locals," she added with a wink.

Tara looked genuinely amused.

"I'll come and visit," Tara said.

Carol took the comment for exactly what it was and patted Tara's hand again.

"You better," Carol said.

She sighed.

"But we need to tell your mother, you know? Sooner or later? It's not fair for her to pay for more lessons when you hate the piano so much. Just like the dance lessons, she'll be disappointed, but she'll be happy not to keep throwing her money away on something you don't have enough interest to learn," Carol said.

Tara frowned deeply and Carol was surprised to see that the idea of giving up the lessons she hated—lessons that were practically Saturday torture—would be so upsetting. She responded, hoping she was guessing correctly about the source of her distress, as quickly as she could to soothe things over.

"Your mother's going to come around," Carol assured her. "And I don't think she's going to be as mad as you think. Disappointed? Maybe. But she'll get over that. She loves you."

Tara nodded her head gently, but the frown didn't fade.

"What about—you?" Tara asked.

"Sweetheart, I'll get by with one less lesson," Carol assured her. "I promise."

Tara shook her head.

"But I won't see you anymore," Tara said.

Carol was moved, then, when she realized what it was that made Tara sad about the whole thing. It wasn't losing the lessons. It wasn't the disappointment of her mother. It wasn't even concern about Carol's financial welfare. It was worry that—the one thing that had started the bond between them removed—she and Carol wouldn't see each other. They'd have no reason to even know one another.

That wasn't the case at all.

"I'm always going to be here, Tara," Carol said. "If you want to come and see me? Drop by. You can have dinner over here sometime if you want. Saturdays? I'll still want tea in the afternoon. Don't you worry about that, OK? If you want me? I'll be here."

Tara smiled, sighed with some relief, and then her smile changed a little to the slightly evil smirk that she got from time to time—the smile that deepened her dimples.

"You'll be here as long as you aren't in the old folks' home," she said.

Carol laughed.

"You're right," Carol said. "But that's at least forty years off. And then? You'll have to come and see me because I doubt they'll let me make my own tea there."

Tara considered it and nodded.

"I can make it," she said. "On Saturdays. I'll come visit. Every Saturday."

Carol accepted that, even though she knew very well how life had a way of going in directions we never expected—especially when we were seventeen—and thanked Tara for the sentiment before she tasted her own tea that was growing cold.

There would be time for Tara to learn that. There would be time for her to learn many things.


End file.
